


Taming Demons (And Other Impossible Jobs)

by SeptemberEndings



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Also this is kinda crap it's more like a writing exercise than anything else, Canon deaths, Don't worry they're really not the point of this, Everything kinda sucks but none of the boys die so there's that at least, Forced Prostitution, Goes through to Mockingjay, Hunger Games AU, I'm Sorry, I'm kinda already regretting this, M/M, Michael's a Victor of the 72nd Hunger Games, OFCs - Freeform, PTSD, Rating May Change, they're from district 9 cos why not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:52:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4570386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeptemberEndings/pseuds/SeptemberEndings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know that Luke doesn't really have any chance of winning. I just don't want his name added to the rest."</p><p>Johanna raises an eyebrow. "Rest of what?"</p><p>"People I didn't save. Couldn't save. Let die in front of me."</p><p>She laughs. "Wow, you're depressing. Get a grip."</p><p>"Thanks, Jo. Really appreciate it," Michael snaps.</p><p>"Accept that you killed people, Michael, because you did," Johanna says. "You're not a good person. Good people never get to live."</p><p>"Yeah, well, it'd be nice if they did. Just for once."</p><p>***<br/>(Michael is the Victor of the 72nd Hunger Games, and Luke's mentor during the 73rd. It's a long, hard road ahead.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Who Painted the Moon Black](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111337) by [throughthedark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/throughthedark/pseuds/throughthedark). 



> Um. Well.  
> I'm not sorry.
> 
> Also, this was inspired by a wonderful fic entitled 'Who Painted the Moon Black' by throughthedark. As soon as I figure out how to put links in shit, I'll do so and check it out because it's guaranteed to be 1000000% better than whatever this is :)

"Calum Hood!"

 

And just. No. No. No. _No._

 

It's not Calum. It will never be Calum, because that's not--

It can't be. Michael won't let it be, because that's not supposed to _happen_.

 

Michael's aware there are cameras trained on his face, his face as Calum shakily makes his way to the stage, hands in his pockets, posture stiff--Michael's aware that people are watching him. He knows his face is stricken, pale, just as pale as Calum's sister's face, as Calum's mom's face. If the Capitol people hadn't known that Michael knew Calum, well. They do now.

 

But this isn't _happening._

 

This is going to end up hurting Calum, if he doesn't school his expression, if he doesn't hide his emotions. But Calum couldn't be reaped.

 

That wasn't supposed to happen.

 

Alonya is smiling at the crowd now, her lips bright-red against her literally white skin. Her lilting, high-pitched voice coos into the microphone, calling out for volunteers as Calum stands steadfast, eyes trained on nothing. Good. That's good. No weakness.

 

Michael feels sick.

 

"I volunteer!"

 

And--what?

_What?_

 

Calum frowns, and his frown quickly becomes replaced with something worse-- _fear._ "No," Calum mouths. "No."

 

This wasn't a district for volunteering. This was District 9. No volunteers ever came out from here.

 

Calum's shaking his head back and forth, fearful, _scared,_ as a blond boy about the same age as Calum and Michael stumbles out of the crowd, face set, hands gripped at his sides.

 

Alonya's face brightens considerably. Calum's face crumples.

"Wonderful!" Alonya says, as the blond boy is led by Peacekeepers onto the stage. "What's your name, dear?"

 

"Don't do this," Michael sees Calum say to the blond boy. The blond boy pays no mind to Calum, and turns to Alonya.

"Luke Hemmings," he says, with only a slight tremble to his voice. That's good, Michael thinks. That's good.

 

Calum is escorted off-stage by Peacekeepers. He looks angry, of all things, but Michael can't breathe because he's _safe._ He's _safe,_ and _sound,_ and Michael won't have to watch his best friend die. Michael won't have to mentor his best friend, just to fail him in the arena.

 

Alonya's smile is terrifyingly brilliant. "Behold, our two tributes, Luke Hemmings and Krista Lovell!"

 

The crowd reluctantly cheers. Michael breathes out a sigh, only this time it's from relief.

***

Alonya won't shut up about all the splendor that the Capitol has to offer, at the opportunities that they have in front of them, how _lucky_ they are.

Michael remembers getting the talk last year, his eyes wide, his nails biting into his skin, drawing blood. He remembers Halyson and Mark looking at him like he was already dead.

Now, Mark is excused from making the trip. Since it's Michael's first year mentoring, and all.

 

He feels like he's going to vomit again.

 

Krista is studying Michael and Halyson from across the table. Luke is staring out of the train window, not saying a word.

 

Michael stands up suddenly. He feels an itching underneath his skin, and he sends an apologetic glance to Halyson for leaving her alone, before he leaves, nails biting into the skin of his palm.

Luke stands up too, and follows Michael out of the compartment.

 

Michael sags against the paneled wood outside the compartment. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry."

"For what? I'm the one who volunteered," Luke asks, but there's not hint of a smile, no _anything._ His expression is just as stony as when he volunteered. "I didn't do it for you. I don't know you. I did it for Calum."

Michael shook his head. "Obviously, but now you've got yourself a death sentence. No one gets out of the arena, Luke. That was the decision that ended your life."

Luke just tilts his head up. His eyes are glittering, but not with tears. With curiosity, and that's just _dangerous._ "You got out," he says.

Michael lets out a huff that was meant to be a laugh. He locks eyes with Luke. Surprisingly, Luke doesn't flinch. "I didn't. You _never_ get out, even once you've won."

 

Michael takes off to his compartment, faster this time. Luckily, Luke doesn't follow.

***

_He's halfway done with his victory tour, visiting District 3 this time._

_Michael had killed the boy; he hadn't even flinched._

_He hadn't even known the boy's name._

 

_Alonya is smiling, as always, and pulls him out on stage. Michael's feet feel like lead. His tongue is flopping around his mouth, and his palms are sweating. He stares out at the two platforms facing him; one of them is projecting a small girl with strawberry blonde hair and a hesitant smile. The other one is projecting a tall, lanky boy with floppy hair and dark eyes._

_Underneath the projection of the boy, a mother and father are glaring at him. A toddler is peering around curiously, eyes wide and innocent._

_And suddenly, Michael doesn't know where to start. What to do. What to say._

_"I'm sorry," he manages out._

_No one moves. A sea of eyes, all aimed at him._

_He bits his lips too hard."But that doesn't help anything."_

 

_He's got cards. A whole speech talking about the fallen tributes. The people that he killed, that he saw killed._

_Victory Tour._

_As if this was somehow a victory._

_He glances down at the cards, takes a deep breath, and starts to read them._

 

_He doesn't ever look up to see the tributes' family. He can't._

***

Michael has a nightmare.

He doesn't remember what it was as soon as he wakes up, but his heart is beating way too fast and screams are building in lungs and he can't _breathe,_ and he knows it was about the arena.

He slips out of bed, and goes to find Halyson.

 

She's in the refreshment car, stirring a glass of amber liquid and tapping her fingers against the glass when Michael shows up.

She looks up, and gives him a slight smile. "Hey," she says, brushing a piece of her hair back. "What are you doing up?"

Michael shakes his head. "What do you think?"

She nods. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah."

 

For the record, Halyson was always Michael's favorite mentor.

There was something cutthroat about Mark, something that hadn't worked off the edges of anger and death. He was aggressive and sharp, the same way Halyson was gentle and docile.

She was thirty-six now, making her the upper end of victors, being fifteen when she'd won. Her hair had already started going gray, her dark hair streaked with silver wisps.

 

Michael swallows, and sits down across from her. He wrings his hands together. "Does it--I mean, do you--"

Halyson shakes her head. "No, it doesn't. It won't end, Michael."

He looks up at her. "I can almost name all twenty-three tributes, now."

She smiles again at him, but it's wrecked with the kind of sadness that would make Michael's throat close up years before all of this happened. "I'd say sorry, but I think we're past that now."

Michael pulls his knees up to his chest, and looks around at the pastries and delicacies surrounding them. "You know, people back home are starving right now," he says.

"I know," Halyson says, and gulps down her drink. She doesn't hesitate to pour herself another. "God, Michael. I know."

He looks at her. "Do you ever wish you'd died, in the arena?"

Halyson bites down on her lip. The train shakes as it picks up speed. The tinkling of glass fills the silence between them.

 

"I...assume," she starts, "that one of the victors has already informed you of what happens with the more attractive victors?"

Michael sucks in a deep breath, remembers the conversation with Finnick. His dead-eyed expression, staring at Michael, calculating just how much Michael would be worth. How many "customers" he'd have. "Yeah," Michael says, scrunching down in his seat. "But--I mean, with Finnick, and Johanna--"

Halyson shakes her head. "Johanna isn't a part of it," she says abruptly.

Michael blinks. "How'd she get out of it?"

"She refused, and Snow killed all of her family," Halyson says bluntly.

 

Michael swallows. Nods. "Got it."

Halyson sighs, and looks at Michael. "You're gonna have a fair amount of customers," she notes. "What's your sexuality?"

"My sexuality?"

"Boys or girls?"

"Both," Michael says.

"Don't tell Snow that. Say girls. They're better, pay better, are more gentle," Halyson says. "You have it easy since you're a guy; as a girl, it's worse."

"Are you still sold?" Michael asks, and 'sold' tastes bitter in his mouth.

"No," Halyson says. "I'm getting too old. Now I'm expected to have children, settle down. Older victors are noted for children."

"Are you going to?"

Halyson frowns. Stares at her glass again. "Doubt I'll have much of a choice, will I?" She smirks, and it doesn't work on her face. It's too angry. Michael wonders, yet again, how she won her games.

 

Michael gets up. His bones are itching, and he can't tell why, or what to do about it. He paces. Stares out the window. Paces.

"I killed people," he says.

She doesn't say anything.

"I _killed_ people," he repeats, turning around. "I killed people, and I don't--I mean, I didn't feel bad about it then. I knew them by their district numbers. I didn't know their names, and I killed them."

She stares at him. She looks pale, limp in the electric light.

"How do you do it?"

Halyson shakes her head at him. "You have a drink, and you think about your family," she says. "Because that's what you can do. Nothing else. Just that."

She pours another glass of amber liquid. She fills it all the way to the brim, and hands it to him. A bit sloshes over the side, onto the carpet.

"Drink," she repeats, and he does.

***

_The heat is sweltering on his skin, and he's pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves, wincing._

_It's Reaping Day, and he's stuck in his nicest linen shirt and black slacks, and the sun is beating down on him, making him more sweat than flesh._

_Michael curses quietly under his breath, bouncing on his heels as he gets registered. None of the Peacekeepers look all too happy at the weather, either, squirming around in their armor, pacing back and forth when they're usually stock-still. It's a bit amusing, actually._

 

_Eventually, finally, he gets through, and is led to the section for the older kids. He looks around, searching out for Calum._

_He's there, near the back of the crowd, tugging at his shirt and wincing. Michael pushes his way through the kids, until he reaches him._

_"Hey, Cal," Michael says, nudging him with his arm. Calum offers a shaky smile to Michael. "What's up?"_

_"Seven of those ballots have my name on them," Calum mumbles. "And, god, I know that's not much--I mean, Mali only let me take two extra tesserae this year--but--"_

_"But you won't get picked," Michael interrupts. "I promise."_

_"How do you know?" Calum asks. "Anything could happen, Mikey."_

_"You won't," Michael promises. "Because you won't. 'm not gonna let that happen."_

_"Right, you against the Capitol," Calum says. "Gonna take them all down by yourself?"_

_"You betcha," Michael says, bumping shoulders with Calum. "They're never gonna know what hit them. I mean, my dashing good looks are good enough to kill at least half the ladies on sight."_

_"Are you sure that's good looks or just the shock of smelling you?" Calum asks, letting out a laugh. And, well, it's a bit shaky, but it's a start._

_"Hey, I smell like roses and rainwater," Michael protests, pretending to be offended._

_"Right," Calum says. "And I suppose the sweat you're covered in right now is actually honey?"_

_"Nah, just the tears of the girls who can't have me."_

_Calum laughs, and gives Michael a one-armed hug. "Thanks," he says softly._

_Michael smiles. "Hey, it's okay. Everything's gonna be fine. I promise."_

***

Michael frowns, and tilts his head to the side. "So what's your relationship to Calum?"

Luke chokes on his croissant. "What?"

"Relationship. To Calum. What is it?"

Luke glances to Halyson, who is pointedly not saying anything, and to Krista, who's suddenly found interest in the breakfast table. "What do you mean, my relationship?"

Michael sighs. "Look, they're gonna ask you this in the Capitol. Caesar, most definitely, maybe some other tributes to get under your skin. Which, by the way, you _don't let them._ Anyway, I need to know. Are you two fucking, in love, or just best friends?"

Luke bites his lip. "We're just friends," he says. "I promise. Plus, I think Cal would probably tell you if he was suddenly interested in boys."

Micheal bites his lip, and looks out the train window. The surroundings are blurred, so much that all he can see is green foliage mixed with a blue and white sky. "I wouldn't know," he says, slowly, deliberately, "because I haven't talked to him in six months."

Luke frowns. "But, Calum and you were always inseparable--"

"And now we're not," Michael finishes. "Hey, Halyson, do they serve whiskey at breakfast?"

Halyson looks over at Michael. "Nah, I'm pretty sure it's just tequila," she says, with a hint of a corkscrew smile.

This time, Krista butts in: "But you can't get drunk when you're mentoring us!"

 

He appraises Krista; he hadn't really taken much note of her, even at the reaping.

 

She's got pale skin, and pale eyes. Her yellow hair hangs down around her face, straight and long. She'd been wearing it in a single plait at the Reaping.

Slight build, mostly bone, timid posture. Not threatening. Would be able to take out in an arena. Easily.

 

Michael gives her a twisted version of his smile. "I can do what I want," he tells her, in no uncertain terms. "Because odds are, I'm talking to two corpses right now."

"Michael!" Halyson barks.

Luke just rolls his eyes at Michael's comment. "You've just been telling me that I was going to die since the Reaping, instead of any actual advice."

"Well, we're not at the Capitol yet," Michael says. "So it's not down to business."

"Right, great to know that this is just you on a regular basis," Luke says.

Michael lets out a laugh, but it's not real. It causes Krista to shiver, but still. It feels a little nice. "I kinda like you," Michael says.

 

Luke smiles a little bit, and takes a bite of his croissant. Red jam oozes out, looking too much like blood.

***

_"Advice?" Michael asks, pacing around the tarmac. "Please?"_

_"I've given you all the advice you need," Mark informs him. "Don't partake in the bloodbath. Never draw attention to yourself. Stay alive."_

_"Right, because that's just so easy," Michael groans._

_"Personally, I think you've got no shot. I wouldn't bet on you in a million years," Mark says._

_Michael doesn't say anything to that, and continues pacing. The asphalt is warm, and the space is too wide. Michael doesn't like it._

 

_A loud buzzing sounds, and air whooshes out, towards them. Michael turns around, and sees a large hovercraft landing gently about a hundred paces from them._

 

_"Right, that's your ride," Mark says. "Bye."  
_

_"What, no good luck?" Michael asks._

_"Good luck doesn't mean anything."_

 

_Three Peacekeepers disembark from the hovercraft. They head toward Mark and Michael._

 

_Michael turns to face Mark. "Tell my parents that the Capitol sucks," Michael says, because he refuses to cry in front of Mark. He won't. That's not going to happen. "And...tell Cal I'm sorry. I was wrong." And, fuck, tears are welling up in his eyes. He wipes at them angrily, desperately._

_Mark cocks an eyebrow. "What makes you so sure you're gonna die? I mean, I think you're gonna die, but."_

_Michael just shakes his head. "Since when were the odds in any of our favors?"_

***

District 9 is relatively far from the Capitol, but they reach it about two hours after breakfast.

As soon as the train starts to run through the tunnels that cut through the mountains, Michael wanders back into the communal car, where Halyson and Krista were.

 

Michael sits down on one of the couches, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. "How much longer?" Michael asks Halyson.

She glances out the window and sees the stone walls zipping past them. "About fifteen minutes," she determines. "Krista, honey, you might wanna look out the window soon. Your first view of the Capitol will be coming up."

Krista swallows hard and shakes her head. "I don't want to," she says, barely above a whisper.

Michael shakes his head at her. "It'll be good to," he says. "They'll eat it up, get you some supporters later on. Just smile and wave."

Krista nails him with an ice-cold glare, and Michael finds himself vaguely impressed at that. She didn't seem like she had that much gumption. "Why should I entertain the people who are looking forward to seeing me killed?"

Michael tilts his head to the side. "I know, but remember that it's just a game to them. It'll help. I promise. In fact, where is Luke? It would be good for him too."

Halyson jerks her head back at the exit. "He went to take a nap, or something."

Michael nods again, stands up. "I'll go find him. Krista, please, just...smile and wave."

 

He finds Luke with a tear-tracked face, curled up in bed.

Michael pauses at the doorway. Just for a second, to observe him.

He was innocent, too innocent, probably, with his baby blue eyes and curious gaze at everyone. Decent-sized muscle mass, at least, even if his face still held some baby fat. Moderate threat in the Games, if left alone, but no one would go looking for him without a specific reason.

Luke sniffles and wipes at his face. Michael clears his throat, letting Luke know about him being there.

"Oh, hey," Luke says, scrubbing at his face automatically, as if trying to erase the tears. Michael bites his lip.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of. With crying, I mean," Michael says quietly.

Luke smiles. "Yeah, but if I get off the train looking this way--"

"Yeah, yeah," Michael says, waving that aside. "Look, I--shit, I'm not good at this. But, um.Thank you."

Luke stretches and gets out of bed. He's still wearing his reaping clothes--a bright white, starched shirt, and slacks the color of the sky. They're rumpled now, as if he slept in them. Michael has no doubt he did. "For what?"

"For Calum," Michael says. "I--thank you."

"It wasn't for you," Luke insists.

"I'm aware of that," Michael says. "But thank you. For protecting him."

Luke nods, mostly to himself, and shifts his weight from one foot to another. He wipes at his eyes again, even though they're mostly dry now. "Look, um, when you asked me the question about Calum and me, and our relationship? Are you guys--I mean, were you ever--"

"No," Michael answers. "He's just, he's the closest thing I have to a brother. Even then, I don't know if I'd have volunteered for him, like you did. Thank you."

Luke shakes his head. "I couldn't let him go through that, not like that. He's like a brother to me too, even though I already have two." He chuckles awkwardly.

Michael just smiles at him, or tries to. His face only gets halfway there. "Thanks," he repeats.

 

Before anyone can say anything else, the train suddenly, gently, rolls to a stop. Michael hears the hissing of gears relaxing, the feeling of the train settling into its tracks.

 

Luke looks worried. "What's going on?"

Michael smiles again, but this time it's not genuine. It's twisted and feels _wrong_ , and his insides have already wrung themselves out and folded into a knot.

 

"Welcome to the Capitol."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halyson hesitates for a moment, before pulling him into a hug. "It's okay," she promises. "It'll all be okay, okay?"
> 
> Michael frowns. "You don't know that," he says quietly. "You don't know that."
> 
> He feels her smile against his shoulder, bittersweet and tired. "Of course I don't," she whispers, "but it's gonna be okay, Michael."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of hate this chapter. Then again, I wrote it, so.

_The first thing Michael notices about the arena is that it kind of looks like home._

_No buildings, no parched smell of wheat in the air, but the ground is gray and gravelly, reflecting the sky above them. The trees are stubbly and sparse, just enough to provide cover, but still shallow-looking. If he squints, it looks just like the woods that were protected by the netted fence, right next to his house._

_Michael suddenly feels sick. He takes another deep, deep breath._

_The air tastes stale and damp. It's going to rain soon._

 

_The counter is steadily counting down, and it's at thirty now. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight._

_Twenty-seven._

_The other tributes are coiled, ready to pounce. He can tell which ones are going to run toward the Cornucopia, and which ones are going to run away._

_The girl from his district is set to run forward. She's eyeing a large sack filled with apples with too much interest, and Michael has to swallow down his fear, his screams warning her not to do it, please god no, no,_ no.

 

_In the end, it'll just mean another tribute down.  
_

 

_Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen._

_Not five feet from his platform, a knife sits on top of a thick, black plastic tarp. He angles himself toward it, knowing that those two items will come in handy. No one else is looking at it; it's either the stockpiled weapons or the woods, no in between._

 

_Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven._

_He sucks in a deep, thick breath. Thunder echoes through the arena, breaking the interminable silence._

_No one is going to go straight after him. He's been exceedingly mediocre._

_He'll survive._

He'll survive.

 

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

 

_Let the 72nd Hunger Games begin._

***

Micheal's eyes are shut and he's not breathing notbreathingnot _breathing._

It's the knowledge that if he opens his eyes, if he takes a breath, it'll be his last.

He's going to die here.

 

It's the girl, the girl he should have saved; she's after him, she's _after him,_ with a knife and her lips are bleeding, dripping down her face, and her eyes are hollow and she smells like rotting apples and her breath is on his neck, crooning _Michael, Michael come on, you're dreaming, snap out of it_ , and if he opens his eyes it'll be the last sight she sees, his eyes bright and green and happy while she's not breathing because he killed her with silence--

He feels a pain in his stomach that makes him double over, and a hand rubs his back and he coughs and she's there, soothing him. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay," she repeats like a mantra, and he's not sure but it sounds like his mother with soft sighs and worry stuck in her throat.

He raises a shaking hand to his face. His hand comes away wet.

"Where am I?" he croaks, and when he brings his hand to his mouth it tastes salty, not like iron and blood and death.

"Safe," she says. "You're safe."

"'m never safe," he says. "I'll never be safe, I've gotta--I'm sorry, I should've--where--?"

She runs a hand through his hair, and it's calloused and harsh and goes a fraction of a second too early.

"Halyson?"

"Right here," she affirms.

Michael swallows, and he needs to breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

His chest feels hollow and his vision clears, and she's there, looking at him. "Sorry," she whispers, and Michael has a bizarre desire to go back, back to where he was in his head, to make himself hurt and groan and sob more just so when he comes back he'll be filled with that instead of nothing at all.

"I--" he starts to say. Stops, because he doesn't quite know. "I'm."

"Sorry," she says again.

 

He looks around, and he's in his Capitol room. The wide, large windows surrounding his room are filled with golden, syrupy light, and he can hear traffic beginning to move, the slow sounds of a city coming awake again. Early morning, then.

"Was I screaming?" he asks her.

"No," she says. "I walked by your door, and you weren't breathing. Like you were trying to suffocate in your sleep or something."

Michael nods.

Halyson hesitates, just for a moment, before asking the question on the tip of her tongue. "Is this because--"

"I think so," Michael interrupts. He doesn't want to hear the ugly word, the one that had already tattooed itself into his brain since last night. "She just--she looked at me, and told me I was a Victor--goddammit, Halyson, I haven't heard that word since last year, and I just--"

"It's okay," she says.

He shakes his head. "The worst part is that, it felt like...well, I was almost _relieved_ to be doing it. Because she was kissing me and all I could think of was that if Cal and Mom and Dad are safe, then it couldn't be all bad. That if I wasn't dying and my family wasn't dying, then I should be _thankful._ And it was like I could see how the Capitol thinks. How I could buy into all that."

Halyson hesitates for a moment, before pulling him into a hug. "It's okay," she promises. "It'll all be okay, okay?"

Michael frowns. "You don't know that," he says quietly. "You don't know that."

He feels her smile against his shoulder, bittersweet and tired. "Of course I don't," she whispers, "but it's gonna be okay, Michael."

***

_When Michael turns twelve, he and Calum run away._

_Not far; always with the intention of coming back. But during the night, when the sky is ink-colored and the industrial lights drown out the stars, Calum appears at Michael's window with a flashlight in his mouth.  
_

_They take turns sharing a coat, since it's cold out and they're both wearing threadbare pajamas. Neither of them say anything._

_They walk to the downtown section, near the square. They pass by the shops and markets, all closed down, dead and eerie looking in the silvery moonlight._

_When they finally reach the square, Calum breaks the silence._

_"What if one of us gets reaped this year?" Calum asks softly. He looks over at Michael. "It could happen."_

_Michael shrugs. He feels a lot braver than he usually does, and in the back of his mind he thinks it's because of the quiet. Because of Calum and the jacket that smells like his dad's cologne and old flannel. "Then it happens," he says. "But it won't."_

_Calum just shakes his head. "Michael, it's possible--"_

_"Cal, it won't happen," Michael repeats._

_Calum runs a hand through his hair. His eyes are worried, blank. "Michael, it very well could. You know it could."_

_"It's, like, a .05% chance, Cal," Michael says firmly, placing his hands on Calum's shoulders. "I promise you that this won't ever happen to either of us. We'll be fine. We're always fine."_

_Calum shakes his head, fiddles with the flashlight. He's looking anywhere but Michael. "You don't know that," Calum whispers._

_"Of course I don't," Michael says, pulling Calum close. "But we're gonna be fine."_

 

***

"Where were you last night?"

 

Krista's peering at him curiously, interested, and Michael feels his throat close up. He contemplates telling her the truth. How, if you got out of the arena, you'd just go through a different kind of torture, the kind that soiled your bones and made you cry in your sleep but still consider yourself _lucky_ , because at least you're _alive._ How he had to sell his body just to appease a Capitol that was always going to demand more than he had to give. How he was thinking that dying in the arena could be better than this.

 

"Meeting with President Snow," Michael says instead. "New Victor stuff, you know, things like that."

 

Krista nods, and turns back to her breakfast.

 

It's a veritable feast, as always; pastel fruits and boats overflowing with butter and margarine, toast and croissants and waffles, slabs of beef and pork dripping in exotic sauces. Michael pours himself a glass of orange juice and pays no attention to the rest of the food. He's still nauseous from his nightmare.

 

At the moment, it's just him talking to Krista and Luke; Halyson had left soon after waking up Michael, saying that she had to talk to one of the other Victors. (Michael thinks she said something like 'Beetee', but that really doesn't sound like a real name.)

 

Luke doesn't seem to readily accept his answer, not like Krista. "What kind of Victor stuff?" he asks Michael curiously.

 

Michael just shrugs. "Business transactions."

 

 

He's not sure, but he thinks an Avox gives him a pitying glance as she begins clearing the table. Michael tries to ignore it, and abruptly changes the subject. "So, what's your plan for training?"

 

Both of them stay quiet.

 

"What, seriously? Nothing?"

 

"Well, trying not to die or humiliate myself," Luke says. "That'd be good."

 

"Did Halyson not go over this with you?" Michael can feel a headache forming already. He just wants this all to be _over._ Like some weird, twisted dream that he just needs to be snapped out of.

 

"She was kinda distracted last night," Krista says quietly. (Everything she _does_ is quiet.) "She seemed worried. About you."

 

Michael's throat kind of feels swollen all of a sudden. He gulps down his orange juice in lieu of any answer. Clears his throat. Cracks his knuckles. _You're fine._

 

Luke's observing him again, an odd expression on his face. Michael ignores it. "Well, okay. So. Um. I'm not good at this."

 

Both Luke and Krista crack tiny smiles. Some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders, but at the same time. He was in _charge_ of them. He was supposed to keep them alive, and he could barely keep him _self_ alive. _Shit_.

 

"I think," Michael says. "Well, um. Any special skills? Like, with weapons or anything?"

 

They shake their heads in unison. Michael feels his heart sink. "Okay. Okay. Um, well, first off, don't let the other tributes know that. You train with them, so. Just stay clear of weapons. Two days with a sword won't help you at this point, and it'll make you look weaker in front of them. I'd advise sticking to survival skills. Setting up traps, knowing which plants are edible, you know, that kinda thing. Those can help you a lot, make sure you never go hungry, and Career Tributes never touch that kind of station. They won't pay any attention to you there."

 

They both seem to understand, nodding and nodding some more before turning back to their breakfasts. Michael still has a bit of a headache, and they don't need him, so he stands up. "I'm gonna--I need--" he jerks his head in the direction of the bedrooms, and begins to make his exit quickly.

 

He feels Luke's eyes, wide and blue and soft, following him all the way out of the room. Michael makes sure not to look back.

  
***

 

_When he's fourteen, Michael watches a boy from his district get beheaded on TV._

 

 

_A lot of people get beheaded that year, due to a Career with a particular affinity for an axe. He also beheads his ally from District Four, causing the girl from District Four to cry and hide away for the rest of the games. She wins when the arena is flooded, and she's the only one who can swim._

 

_At the televised Victor Celebration, she's already gone mad. The Capitol tries hard to hide it, dressing her up prettily and giving her a strict, monotonous script, but it's obvious from her haunted, bloodshot eyes. The way she holds her hands close to her, how her nails are bitten too short and she's got fingerprint bruises from gripping her arms too hard. How her mentor, Finnick Odair, talks about her softly, but with a harsh edge of anger in his tone.  
_

 

 

_The District 9 boy had been named Emmer Nilson. He was fifteen, and he'd lived five houses down from Michael._

 

 

_At lunch, Michael would sometimes sit with him, if Calum hadn't been around. Emmer was nice enough, if a bit distant. They'd sometimes exchange hellos, talk about nonsensical things, like the weather or how much they didn't like a particular teacher. The last conversation they'd had, Emmer had said that he was looking forward to turning eighteen, to getting out of school and starting a family of his own._

 

 

_When Emmer had gotten reaped, Michael had just felt relief that it wasn't him or Calum. When Emmer was beheaded, Michael just sucked in a deep breath, and waited._

 

_The screams from five houses down echoed throughout the whole district._

 

***

 

 

"Well, well, well, if it isn't our newest Victor."

 

Michael rolls his eyes. "Nice to see you too, Johanna," Michael says without turning around.

 

"I thought that the roof was only for District Twelve's use," she points out, leaning against the railing.

 

"Then why are you here?"

 

She shrugs. "Good point."

 

They stand together, in silence.

 

 

The roof is quite lovely, really.

 

It's full to the brim of flowering, perfumed plants, all lending their fragrances to the unrelenting, constant wind. All of the Capitol is visible, sprawling out to the jagged edges of the mountains, unending, undefeated. It's gorgeous and makes him hate the Capitol even more.

 

 

Johanna's the one to break the silence first. "Did you...?" she begins, and he knows what she's asking.

 

He fishes into his pocket, and pulls it out.

 

 

The beeper is sleek and silver, a thin piece of metal with a curved screen. It's dead at the moment, but he knows that it can turn on at any given point, and he'll have to answer it. Follow the directions to his next customer.

 

 

"Shit," she breathes out. "You actually agreed."

 

Michael just shrugs. "Had no other choice, did I?" he says.

 

Johanna flinches.

 

"Sorry," he says.

 

She just nods, and turns back to face the sprawling expanse of the Capitol. "Fuck the Capitol," she says, and it's just soft enough that Michael can catch it but not the hidden cameras dotting the premises.

 

Michael nods. "Fuck the Capitol."

 

 

"You know, my tributes are wimps this time," Johanna mentions. This time louder, so Michael knows they're back on record. Back to being monitored. _(Always.)_ "Although they don't have you to go up against, so maybe they'll win this time."

 

Michael laughs. His bit of headache flares up again. "I don't know about mine yet," he says. "Kind of seem a bit useless."

 

Johanna frowns. "What about your boy? The one who volunteered?"

 

"Apparently he did it out of the goodness of his heart, or something," Michael says. Then, because the Capitol already know about Cal so _what else does he have to lose,_ he adds, "he volunteered for my best friend."

 

Johanna just laughs, and Michael's not sure whether he appreciates or despises her. "Sounds about right," she says. "That boy's got some guts, though. Coming in with nothing just to save someone else."

 

"I know," Michael says.

 

"It's the stuff that revolutions are made of." Softer, clandestine.

 

"Doubt it," Michael says back to her. "Revolutions need a lot more than that. It doesn't need a spark. It needs a fire."

 

"Yeah," Johanna says. "Still, nice to think about."

 

Michael nods. "I just...I don't want him to die," Michael says. Still soft and quiet, even if it doesn't strictly _need_ to be. "Because...well, he's just. He helped _Calum._ That's a debt that I owe a practical stranger."

 

"Don't get attached," is Johanna's immediate response.

 

Michael snorts. "I'm not an idiot."

 

"Really, newbie?"

 

"Shut up," Michael shoots back. "I know that he doesn't really have any chance of winning. I just don't want his name added to the rest."

 

Johanna raises an eyebrow. "Rest of what?"

 

"People I didn't save. Couldn't save. Let die in front of me."

 

She laughs. "Wow, you're depressing. Get a grip."

 

"Thanks, Jo. Really appreciate it," Michael snaps.

 

"Accept that you killed people, Michael, because you did," Johanna says. "You're not a good person. Good people never get to live."

 

"Yeah, well, it'd be nice if they did. Just for once."

 

Johanna snorts. "Have fun living in your fantasy realm, Mikey, but out here no one gets out without blood on their hands. No one."

 

***

 

_"Hello, Michael Clifford, Tribute from District 9! How are you tonight?"_

 

_Caesar Flickerman is smiling at him, but Michael feels as though he's listening to Caesar talk through a tunnel. His hands are shaking, and he wipes them off on the fabric of his suit._

 

_Michael could die tomorrow, and he's here speaking to a man about it in front of a live audience. People who would probably cheer when he died._

 

_He couldn't think._

 

_"Michael?" Caesar repeats, and his smile becomes a little forced. "Someone caught the jitters, then?"_

 

_Michael wants to laugh. He thinks he does, because the crowd laughs with him. "Something like that," Michael forces out._

 

_Caesar beams. "Why are you nervous?" he teases. "I'm not too scary-looking."_

 

_But I'm not nervous, is what he wants to say, I'm just angry at the fact that you're treating this like some opportunity. Like I should be happy that I'm about to lose my life just for your entertainment, just so you can make some sick point._

 

_"I'm not good talking to people," is what he says. The crowd coos in sympathy. Michael wants to vomit._

 

_"Well, you're doing fine," Caesar assures him.  
_

 

_Fuck you, Michael thinks. "Thanks."_

 

_"So," Flickerman continues, "what are you going to show us out in the arena? Are you going to wow us with some hidden talent?" he smiles amicably._

 

_And Michael freezes.  
_

 

 

_This is it, this is the time that he can tell people that he'll wow everyone. He can win sponsors, even just for a night, before they realize that he's almost useless. That the 7 he got in training is really isn't just a 7. He can convince people that it was a clever ploy, a trick, like Johanna Mason. He could be charming, and teasing, and he could show people that he deserves to be rooted for._

 

 

_"Why are we pretending I'm going to survive? There's plenty of other people who deserve it a lot more than me. Who know more than me about weapons. I've got nothing," Michael blurts out._

 

_The crowd goes silent. Michael would blush, or take it back, but--it's true. It's all true._

 

 

_"Well, I'm sure you've got heart," Caesar concedes, after a painfully long silence. "And that can go a long way, Michael."_

 

_The  problem is, Michael isn't even sure he's got that._

 

 

***

The three days of training pass too slowly and all at once, and suddenly they're prepping for interviews.

Krista's off with Halyson, learning to walk in high heels and trying on dresses, while Michael has to spend quality time with Luke, teaching him 'interview etiquette' or something.

 

"Okay, so, um. Interviews," Michael begins.

Luke offers him a tentative smile. "Basically don't do what you did."

Michael rolls his eyes. "Something like that. Halyson gave me notes, hold on..."

He starts to dig through his pockets, before he finds the index cards rubber-banded together. He sighs in relief. "Okay, you're not _totally_ screwed now."

He looks up to smile at Luke, but Luke's observing him again, that same weird expression on his face. Michael sighs. "What is it?" he asks.

 

"You and I are the same age," Luke says. "Well, kinda. You're something like eight months older than me, but--"

"But what?" Michael asks. "I know more about this, Luke. I've lived through this. I'm here to help you."

"But you shouldn't _have_ to."

"Don't you think I know that?" Michael groans. "But this is just how it is."

 

"Calum misses you," Luke says quietly. "He doesn't stop talking about you."

"Yeah, well, no one wants to be friends with a murderer."

"But you're not--"

"I _am,_ " Michael says. "And you will be too, if you live long enough."

Luke raises an eyebrow. "You killed people, you didn't murder them."

 

Michael wants to scream, but he doesn't. He takes deep, calming breaths. _1, 2, 3. You're here, you're fine, you're not being attacked. Calm down. Calm down,_

"Are we gonna work on this interview or not?" Michael asks, his tone strained and calm.

"I'll be perfectly pleasant in the interview," Luke promises. "That's not a big deal."

 

"And discussing my past is?" Michael asks without meaning to.

"It's not the _past,_ though, Michael, it happened just last year!"

"And so it happened _in the past._ And you're not my therapist," Michael says.

 

"I just wanna help you--"

"Luke--"

"C'mon, Michael, stop pushing me away," Luke whines.

_I don't know you. You have no right. You're just some dumb kid._

"You're annoying."

"You're annoyinger," Luke shoots back.

"That's not a word."

"You're not a word."

Michael laughs, and he surprises himself with how loud it is, how joyful it sounds. He claps a hand over his mouth, but the damage is done and Luke joins him, laughing hard and fast over something that wasn't even that funny.

 

"Oh my god, we must be crazy," Michael manages out, once their laughter dies down. "Absolutely, completely bonkers."

"Yup," Luke says cheerfully.

Michael smiles at Luke, and it doesn't feel as forced this time. "I think we'd better focus on the interview, though."

 

"Does it really matter, though?" Luke asks. "I mean, I got a  _six_ as my training score. A good interview isn't enough to keep me alive through the bloodbath."

Michael considers this. "I mean, I did win with a seven," he points out.

"Yeah, because you're smart. And the rest of the tributes were stupid," Luke says.

"It's simple. Just pay no attention to the Cornucopia. No matter how tempting it is, no matter how much you want whatever is there, you have to run away from it. The bloodbath is a bloodbath because of the Cornucopia, and you probably knew that but it's surprising how easy it is to forget that when you see whatever goodies are there. Just scope out an item near your podium, go for that, and get the hell out."

"What about water? It's probably not going to be raining the whole time, like it was with you," Luke points out.

"That's the next step. Go for water, base yourself near it, and don't go looking for trouble unless you have to," Michael instructs.

"Why would I intentionally go looking for trouble?"

"Cos you're dumb," Michael says. "I mean, c'mon, you volunteered for god's sake."

"I'm a _hero,_ " Luke defends, with a small smile.

"A dumb hero."

Luke knocks shoulders with Michael. "You're the worst."

For once, Michael doesn't feel like agreeing, or just nodding to get the conversation to  _stop._ He feels light, like the hollowness in his chest had been filled with helium. He laughs again, just because he can, and says, "You're worser."

Luke's answering, surprised grin is enough to make Michael's heart swell.

Just for a second, but. Still.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A loud horn pierces the air. "Let the 73rd Annual Hunger Games begin!"

_The train pulls into the District 9 station twelve days after Michael had won the Hunger Games._

_He hadn't been conscious for seven of those days. The Capitol had sedated him, kept him on IVs, feeding him and mending scars and turning him into a gorgeous doll for the cameras._

 

_Michael doesn't want to go home. His hands are shaking. His eyes are stinging. He doesn't feel like he's actually here, and it feels like his heart and stomach are being pulled in opposite directions, leaving a vacuum right where his chest is._

 

_There's a knock at Michael's train compartment door, and Alonya sticks her head in a second later. "We're pulling in now!" she screeches happily, as if Michael hadn't felt the drain of momentum on the train. "Ready to go home?"_

_Michael hugs his knees into his torso, and doesn't answer.  
_

_Alonya frowns. "Aren't you excited?"_

 

_Michael arranges his mouth in a hopefully convincing smile. "Yeah," he says.  
_

_Alonya just frowns again, and ducks out of the room._

_Michael swallows once, twice, and pulls at his clothes. They were simple, yet reeked of wealth; the stitches around his silver-colored tunic was plaited with gold, and his shoes squeak every time he walks because of the polish poured on them._

_He stands up, and places his hands into his pockets to hide the shaking._

 

_He walks out of the train doors composed, regal._

_He remembers the instructions Mark had given him the night before. Smile blandly, wave at the audience, don't acknowledge the camera crew. Stand there for a minute or so, and then get into the black car waiting at the end of the station._

_Michael takes a deep breath, and steps out into the sunshine.  
_

 

_The crowd roars, and Michael almost collapses on the spot._

_It's all so familiar; the aluminum roofing of the train station, the raised platform he was standing on, the steel color of the sky and the smell of wheat and tin._

_He steps carefully out to the railing, where his hometown stands below him._

 

_His mom and dad are at the front, and they're screaming the loudest. His mom is smiling brightly, waving a handkerchief and almost crying from happiness, and his dad waves his arms around and jumps up and down._

_Michael gives a slight nod to them, and then directs a blank smile at the crowd. His legs feel like they've lost all muscle mass, and he feels like his brain is overheating. His breath comes in sharply through his nose, stabbing his lungs with fresh air too fast and too slow at the same time.  
_

_Through the cheers and the screams, he sees Calum's face._

_He was the near the back of the crowd, and he is the only one not cheering. His face was puckered and tight, and he's staring at Michael with some expression that Michael's never seen before._

 

_Michael closes his eyes and squeezes his hands into fists in his pockets._

_He turns and walks down the platform to the black car. He does not cry. He will not cry._

_The cheers reverberate in his mind, warping and twisting into blood-curdling screams._

***

The Victors all watch the Hunger Games together.

It's tradition, according to Halyson; they all gather in the room, and the Career Victors place bets while the rest of them drink alcohol and pretend they're watching a movie.

She drags him down to the seventh floor ten minutes before the Games began. Only Finnick and Johanna were there.

"You're early," Finnick notes. He's sitting on the floor, back pressed against the couch, and Johanna is playing with Finnick's hair. Johanna's tense, jerky movements and Finnick's blank eyes betray the  "casual" atmosphere.

They're about to watch twenty-three kids die on-air, and they're pretending it's some sort of slumber party.

 

"Where are the others?" Michael asks.

Finnick shrugs. "Probably pawning alcohol off Capitol citizens, or talking up their kids to last-minute sponsors."

Michael nods. He knows that not all of the time is spent in here, watching the Games. Halyson had already said that she'd be ducking in and out, trying to raise enough money to support Luke and Krista.

 _Not likely to get money._ Those are the exact words she'd used, and Michael's chest had tightened up.

 

"Y'know, for your Games I wouldn't have bet on you," Johanna says conversationally, as Michael sits down in an armchair near the back of the room.

Michael makes a face. "Thanks, Jo. Always feel better when I talk to you."

She rolls her eyes. "You didn't have many sponsors at all, Michael, and you still won. Don't count your tributes out before they've even begun."

"Don't give him hope, Johanna," Finnick says softly. "Michael, just..."

 

He swallows. "I know."

He checks his watch. Five minutes before it begins.

Halyson, who had wandered over into the kitchen a good five minutes ago, emerges with two full glasses of whiskey, instead of those normal tiny ones. "Ready?" she asks grimly, handing one to him.

"Are you?"

"Never," she says, and then knocks back about half the glass in one go. Michael stares.

She just shrugs, and sits down next to him. She kicks her feet up on a nice-looking wooden coffee table.

The lift in the foyer beeps, and a few moments later, two Career Tributes enter the room.

 

Michael recognizes them vaguely.

They're both District 1 Victors, brother and sister if he remembers correctly--Cashmere and Glitter or something like that. Brother and sister.The girl had won a Games about nine years ago, when Michael was eight. The boy had won the year before her. Their faces were lit in matching smiles, and Halyson's face becomes shadowed as they sit down on the couch next to Johanna.

"Our tributes are _excellent_ this year," Cashmere says excitedly, clapping her hands. "I can't wait to see them flourish!"

Glitter or Glove or something says, "Yeah, the boy especially. Cash, did you see the way he handled the _sword_ \--"

"Oh, I _know,_ but the girl was especially talented with a knife--"

Halyson rolls her eyes and gulps down the rest of her drink. Michael feels sick, and places his glass on the table.

 

Tributes trickle in as the time draws closer and closer. Some stop by to say hi to Halyson, or introduce themselves to Michael, but most are silent, tensed.

When Michael looks over at Johanna and Finnick, he sees Finnick's white face, and Johanna's clenched fists.

And that's how he knows that this will be worse than the actual Hunger Games.

 

The TV flicks on suddenly, with a whining transmission sound.

One minute is on the clock.

The tributes are on the podiums, ready to run.

And Michael reaches for his whiskey glass, choking it down. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

***

_Michael doesn't actually remember getting reaped._

_He remembers the moments after, sprinting through his mind so fast that he can only get snapshots._

 

_He remembers Calum's face. Drawn, angry, tears swelling in his eyes. Michael remembers wondering why, as if he'd already forgotten what had happened._

 

_He remembers shaking hands with the girl tribute and noticing how her hands shook, and noticing how his didn't._

_Michael remembers how his mom wouldn't let him go, how neither of them said anything. He remembers how his dad just stared him, like Michael was already dead._

 

_And Michael remembers wondering what dead really meant. Because if someone had put a limited number of days on his life, didn't that mean that he was already half-dead? Hadn't he already been told the date of his death? Wasn't that already half of the battle?_

 

_And if that was half of the battle, if it was kill or be killed--what was the point?_

***

The first thing Michael notices is the brightness of the arena.

It's in strict contrast to his, full of gray skies and watery soil and stubby, colorless trees--no, this one is bright, white, and wasted.

 

The Cornucopia seems to be in a town square made of rubble and dust motes. Skeletons of buildings slouch in the distance of the cameras, and the expanse seems to be an old, abandoned town.

The tributes survey their surroundings, half stuck between amazement and confusion. A landscape hadn't ever resembled something like this, and a lot were gearing toward the Cornucopia, probably hoping to find water or some sort of tool kit for this place.

 

Michael could see the uncertainty in Krista's stance, the way her eyes darted back and forth. But Luke--Luke was already facing backward, ready to bolt as soon as the minute was up. Michael's heart was in his throat.

 

The clock projected on the Cornucopia was at 12--11--10.

The Victor room had fallen silent.

Michael's hands clench around his glass of whiskey. He doesn't know if he's breathing.

3.

2.

1.

A loud horn pierces the air. "Let the 73rd Annual Hunger Games begin!"

 

Halyson's hand shoots out and grabs his.

 

The melee breaks out immediately, and only two things register in Michael's mind: Luke is running away, and Krista is running in.

Michael shakes his head. "No," he says, quietly enough that only Halyson hears him. "I told her not to. I told her not to, no, no, no--"

Someone spears Krista Lovell in the stomach.

She falls to the ground, and a camera zooms in on her face.

 

Her eyes are blank. Blood is on her lips.

"--no," Michael whispers.

"Shit," Halyson says.

"Tough luck," Johanna calls from the couch.

 

Michael stands up. "D-do I have to stay here?" he asks Halyson.

She stares at him. "Luke's still alive--"

"Do I have to stay here?" Michael asks again.

"No."

"Okay," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, okay, okay. I'm--sorry, I just--"

 

He runs out of that room, and Krista Lovell follows him with blank eyes and blonde, plaited hair.

***

_The boy stares at Michael. His hand ghosts over to his belt, where three wickedly sharp, serrated knives are strapped._

 

_Michael takes a step back._

_"I--"  
_

_The boy swings at him, a blade clutched in his shaking hands._

 

_Michael dodges it and starts sprinting._

_He can hear footsteps behind him, sinking into the muddy ground with a_ shhhluck _sound. The rain is still pouring, always pouring, and Michael sprints into it, running for his life._

_But the boy is faster._

 

_Michael tries to turn a sharp corner, and the boy tackles him._

_He stares up at the boy. He's got scared eyes, like he's the one about to die. The knife in his hand twitches._

 

_The boy hesitates a fraction of a second too long._

_Michael pulls his knee up and kicks the boy in the chest, and the boy leaps off of him, clutching at his diaphragm. He doubles over in pain, and drops the knife._

_Michael jumps to his feet and grabs the knife, and he darts off, faster than he had before._

 

_And then, he hears footsteps behind him again. Michael panics._

_It's idiotic of the boy to be following him. Michael is armed, and the boy is injured--  
_

_Michael twists around, and throws the knife at the boy stumbling after him._

 

_It buries itself right in the middle of the boy's torso. Lucky shot._

 

_Michael doesn't stop running. Not even when the cannon booms, echoing throughout the arena.  
_

***

When Michael's pager had buzzed, he hadn't felt horror or anger. He had felt detached, like it was happening to a third person, like he was reading about it in a novel.

She was all hard lines and bright colors, bones jutting out at odd angles and skin a neon orange. She'd worked quickly and hadn't said much.

 

Michael walks into the TV room five hours after Krista Lovell had died. Fifteen minutes after the woman had let him leave with the promise of 'renting' him again.

Michael feels like he wasn't really here. Like he's never really been here at all.

 

Halyson smiles at him when he comes back in, and he wonders how she can do that without her mouth burning.

"Luke's still alive," she says.

And, well--that was a surprise, kind of. "How many dead?"

"Twelve," she says.

"Who?"

"One from District 2, both from 3, one from 5, one from 6, both from District 8, Krista, one from 10, on from 11, both from 12," Halyson rattles off.

Michael frowns. "District 2?"

Halyson shrugs. "6 boy was dying, and he killed the 2 girl before he was actually down."

Michael whistles. "Where's Luke?"

 

Halyson gives a tiny, almost defiantly proud smile. "Found a working faucet for water in a warehouse, and camped out there."

"Fires?"

"Doesn't need it, and he's too smart for that anyway," she says. "He set up camp in the _dry wall._ "

"Wait--what?"

Halyson grins. "There was a caved-in section of the warehouse wall, and somehow wiggled his way into it, and that's where he's sleeping. I haven't seen something that ingenious, _ever._ It totally beats the way you won your Games."

 

"He hasn't won, Halyson," Michael says.

"I've got a good feeling."

 

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Don't--that's a bad idea. There are so many ways he could die."

 

Halyson just shrugs. "That's exactly what Mark said to me about you, and here you are."

 

 _Yeah,_ Michael thinks, _and I don't really know if that's a good thing._

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No, but seriously, Michael," Kaurwaki says. She says his name like it's a naughty word she's proud of. "I was always rooting for you. How did it feel, to know you'd won so much? Proud? Worthy?"
> 
> Sick, Michael thinks. I had blood on my hands. Someone had died. I was dizzy and underfed and didn't know where my body ended and my blade began. I was blurring at the edges, and every time a cannon boomed I almost had a panic attack.
> 
> "Yeah," Michael says. "I guess you could say something like that."

_Michael only remembers the look in her eyes, at the end._

_She was vicious. From District 2, with white blonde hair cut sharply right before her jawline, and hard eyes, like rock._

_But her face, when she realized she was dying--it was bad._

_He remembers glittery tears and a soft, young body gushing blood. He remembers the fear in her eyes._

_He'd thought that when she died, there would be anger. The last to lose, and all that._

_He never really thought she'd be losing her life in the process. Strange oversight on his part, really._

_But here she is, dying, and his hands are covered in blood. "Shit," he says._

_She's too far gone to say anything back._

 

_A cannon screams at him, and it's the announcer's voice filling his eardrums, telling him that he's won, he's the winner of the 72nd annual Hunger Games._

_Because this kind of thing is_ annual.

_"I'm sorry," he whispers to her._

_But really, if he's being honest--truly, deeply honest--he'd do it again, fifty times over, just to survive._

***

Luke makes it five days in his hideout before he's drawn out.

 

By that point, another tribute has died, bringing the count down to eleven. The Games haven't been too eventful so far, so really, it was just a matter of time before they push the tributes together again. Mostly, they'd been reliant on Career drama, but now action needed to happen.

Luke has been getting more sponsors now, and Halyson's been fielding the business so Michael can keep watch and go to his 'appointments'.

They've increased, throughout the Games. Michael shudders to think why that is. (Maybe they get turned on by pain and death. Maybe they've heard he's good in bed and doesn't cry. Maybe--)

But Michael's free today, and he's curled up in one of the plush armchairs, half-paying attention to the Games. He's got a cup of hot chocolate that's still steaming, and Johanna has an entire jug of whiskey. To each their own, or something.

She's got one tribute left, but he's pretty injured. Arm hanging on by a thread. Michael thinks that she might already have placed bets against him.

Finnick's got both of his still alive, but a lot of the mentors have stopped meeting. Once you've got both tributes down, there's no reason to hang around.

 

Luke's still asleep when Michael gets into the room, and Johanna snorts and says, "What do you think are his odds?"

"Not good," Michael says honestly.

"That's nice," Finnick says. "Real supportive."

"I try," Michael says, and takes a sip of his hot chocolate. "Besides, you're one to talk. I saw you making fun of your boy to Wanda yesterday."

Finnick just shrugs.

 

They draw the tributes out with swarms of bees.

 

Michael privately thinks that the Game Makers could be a little more creative, but the bees _are_ invincible. Metal, gleaming bodies, not unlike tracker-jackers, but without the hallucinogenic toxin, it seems. So obviously they want to draw the tributes closer together, not kill them.

 

Luke obviously thinks so, too.

He's awake in an instant, and seems to hesitate for one single, solitary moment.

He then stumbles out of his hideout, grabs a small, broken lead pipe, and jogs away from the bees. They don't follow him too closely, once the Game Makers realize Luke's not fighting the move.

Michael almost feels proud of him.

***

_"What do you think it's like to kill a man?" Calum asks Michael, swinging his legs back and forth on the tree branch._

_Michael blinks at Cal, and then starts laughing._

_Calum frowns. "What?" he asks. "It's a reasonable question!"_

_Michael laughs, and nods. "I know," he says. "It's just so random. 'Do you think Karana has a crush on me? Did we have any chores we had to do? Also, what's it like to take someone's life?'"_

_Calum stares at him, and then giggles. "Yeah, you're right," he says, and starts to climb down from the tree. "That does sound kinda ridiculous."_

_"Yeah," Michael says, and starts to follow Cal down. "Plus, we probably won't have to worry about it, so. Doesn't matter. We're only eleven, too. Not even old enough for the Reaping."_

***

The tributes are pushed together into the town square again.

Michael doesn't want to say he's nervous, but, well--Luke wasn't hurt, but he also had little access to food in five days. He could very well be weak and lightheaded at this point.

When Luke gets about two blocks out, the mutant bees pause, lining up perfectly to form an impenetrable barrier at least six feet high and surrounding the entire street. Michael would bet the life of his mother that the rest of the escape routes were similarly blocked off by gleaming insects.

So, no way out. That's always a fun time.

 

By the time Luke gets there, a tribute is already on the brink of death.

He's pushed up against the Cornucopia, knife at his throat. A burly girl is holding him there, and he's only about fourteen. She has to be at least seventeen.

All the other tributes are in various stages of fighting, or have just arrived. Johanna's boy is crowded into a corner by two Careers wielding spiked maces.

Luke blinks, and then runs toward the heavy-set girl and the smaller boy.

Michael audibly groans.

 

But he keeps running, running, running, and he's two feet away and hasn't stopped yet and he tackles the girl, knife clattering out of her hand.

The boy tribute falters, and brings a hand up to his neck, confused.

The girl is squirming under the weight of Luke, pushing against him and wringing her hands around his neck, but he keeps hold of her shoulders, slamming them down into the concrete. He takes his lead pipe and beats her with it, and the pipe begins to glisten with blood.

Michael sits forward, mug of chocolate forgotten.

 

A cannon booms. Johanna's tribute, and she leaves the room but still Luke and the girl are doing some weird, murderous form of wrestling.

Another cannon booms. One of the mace-wielding maniacs bludgeoned their partner.

 

And then there's blood, lots of it, and Michael holds his breath but Luke's stumbling away, confused, and there's a knife sticking out of her neck, her knife, and the fourteen-year-old boy is standing next to her bleeding body with a hesitant little smile.

Luke stares at the boy.

A cannon booms.

The boy's eyes roll back in his head, and there's a sword sticking through his lower belly.

It's ripped out, and he falls to the pavement, another cannon booming.

There's a boy standing there. Dark skin, rippling muscles, anger in his eyes.

Luke blinks, and the killer starts to race after Luke.

***

_"How did it feel to stand there, realizing that you've become a victor?" the interviewer asked, holding out her tape recorder to him._

_She's not Flickerman. Caesar was always more tactful in his questions, with gentle eyes and earnest hands. It almost was like he was saying sorry, in his own way. Sorry that I'm here, and you're there, and this has happened._

_But this interviewer is the opposite._

_Bright, violet eyes, blue hair, brown skin tattooed with rainbow colors. She'd said her name was Kaurwaki or something like that. She smiled after every one of her questions, and touched his leg frequently._

_Michael swallows, and smiles. "Relieved," he says, and the camera crew laughed._

_He wasn't joking._

 

_"No, but seriously, Michael," Kaurwaki says. She says his name like it's a naughty word she's proud of. "I was always rooting for you. How did it feel, to know you'd won so much? Proud? Worthy?"_

Sick, _Michael thinks._ I had blood on my hands. Someone had died. I was dizzy and underfed and didn't know where my body ended and my blade began. I was blurring at the edges, and every time a cannon boomed I almost had a panic attack.

_"Yeah," Michael says. "I guess you could say something like that."_

_He tries to smile, but all of the blood has emptied out of his head and rushed down to his stomach._

_Kaurwaki beams at him._

_"Would you excuse me for a moment, Kaurwaki?" he asks._

_"Of course," she says brightly._

 

_He gets up and walks at a very normal pace to the bathroom._

_And ends up vomiting for ten minutes, till there's nothing but spit and acid left._

***

Right before Luke nearly dies, three things happen.

 

The first is probably the most obvious one; the dark-skinned boy lunges after Luke, and Luke starts running, but it's not enough. It won't be enough. Michael doesn't breathe, just watches as Luke scrambles away and the sword is still in reach, still nearly about to stab him and kill him and maybe just maybe Luke had a chance but certainly not any more.

The second thing that happens is a loud, deafening sound not unlike a bomb going off.

It's not an explosion, but all tributes duck for cover. Windows in all the skeleton buildings break open, and the boy running after Luke throws himself toward the Cornucopia, as if that would save him from what was happening.

Luke throws both of his hands over his ears, and immediately looks up, which is what prepares him for the third thing:

 

Giant, massive blades.

Finnick says, "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me," and Michael has to actually agree.

 

Steel, and spinning, and descending from the storefronts of every building in the square.

It should be just a scare tactic; something to get everyone to separate again. The Game Makers don't want more deaths; four in one day was just enough to drum up the action but leave enough tributes to make the Games last.

But the problem is, every tribute in the square right now was still dealing with the explosive sound. Some close-ups of the tributes revealed bleeding ears, confused expressions, general disorientation.

Except for Luke, bless his fucking heart.

 

He first runs to the dead bodies of the girl and the fourteen-year-old, cutting off their packs with an abandoned knife. He sticks the knife in one of the bags, and looks at the steel blades, studying them for a long time.

Then, he darts out, leaving the rest of the tributes and getting away safely.

 

Michael lets out a deep breath. "He's in the final eight," Michael says.

"And he's really lucky," another victor says. "He should've died, really."

"You're damn right," Michael says. The knots in his stomach untwist. "But he _didn't._ "

***

_When Michael is well enough to walk around, he demands to see the interviews from when he made it into the Final 8._

 

_He can't remember his reasoning why; maybe, at that point, he'd become so homesick that he just needed some confirmation that his family and Calum were still real._

 

_It was his mom's interview that was the hardest to watch._

_His mother had always been a severe woman. She had pucker lines around her mouth, and always kept her hair back in a ponytail so tight that her scalp shape was clearly visible underneath. She'd always been stiff and formal with Michael, even if she always told him at the end of her orders that she loved him._

_But in her interview, she looked completely wrecked._

_Not in a way that was visible to anyone else. But her hair was down, falling in feathery pieces around her face. Her blonde hair was streaked with too much gray now, and no matter how much makeup they put on her, it couldn't hide the red ringing her eyes._

_"Michael is everything to me," is what she'd said, tugging at her wrists. "He's my only child, and I--if anything bad ever happened to him, I don't know what I'd do."_

_An off-screen interviewer says in response, "So you want him to win?"_

_"I want him to live," she says, staring straight at the camera. Like she's talking to Michael and President Snow at the same time. "Like every other mother, I want him to live."_

***

They air Calum's interview for Luke right after the evening news.

Michael isn't too surprised at the prompt response once the Final 8 was determined. Once the bloodbath is over, they start interviews with tributes found most likely to make it to the Final 8.

Michael is a bit surprised that Luke was pegged a contender for the Final 8, but he did make it. Good on Luke.

 

Once Calum's face appears on-screen, Michael sits up, eyes hard and hands trembling.

He's alone with Halyson, on their floor at this point. It's a small comfort, that the other victors don't see his weakness for Cal.

 

Calum is tired. That much is obvious. His smile is tight at the edges when he greets the interviewer.

"So, you and Luke must have a special bond," is the interviewer's first prompt. she gives him a flirtatious grin, making sure to highlight her dimples and green skin.

"Yeah," Calum says. "He's...he's my best friend, I guess."

Michael's stomach bottoms out, but it's fine. It's fine.

"He volunteered for you for the Games," she says. "And while that can earn him glory, it could also come at a terrible price."

"I know," Calum says. "I miss him every day."

"What would you say to him, if he were here?"

"That he's an absolute idiot," Calum says. "But I miss him a lot. And I want him to come home."

The interviewer smiles sadly at him. Her mascara is blue and glittering, and she flutters her eyelids a lot. "That's what you said to your friend, Michael, last year. And he did come home!"

"Yeah," Cal says. "I guess I'm lucky."

"Or a good luck charm."

"It felt like I could breathe again when Michael survived," Calum says. Michael's breath catches. "I care about him so much. I care about Luke so much. I just wish he'll come home, to his family and his friends."

Cal's voice is monotonous. His eyes are dead. Michael hugs his knees to his chest.

"He will, Calum," the woman promises. Her voice is oddly soft. "Or, at least, he'll try his best."

 

Michael stands up. "I--uh. I have to go. To the roof. For Johanna."

Halyson blinks up at him. "You don't have to give me excuses, Michael," she says to him. "Just go."

Michael nods, and takes off to his room.

He locks his door, and he sinks down to the floor.

 

Michael whispers, "I miss Calum."

Then, "I miss Mom. I miss Dad."

And, finally: "Luke will win. He will."

He feels hot tears at the edge of his vision, building in his throat, and for once he just lets it happen, curled up on his floor like a pathetic little child.

 

 

 


End file.
